


music heals the heart

by haleofStilesheart



Series: Tumblr Prompts [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Singing Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7689508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wasn’t usually one to say ‘I told you so’ but right now that’s all he wanted to say.<br/>He’d <em>told</em> Stiles not to eat raw cookie dough. He’d <em>told</em> him he was going to get sick. He’d <em>told</em>him.<br/>And now of course Stiles was curled up on Derek’s couch, groaning loudly as he clutched his stomach, another onslaught of abdominal cramps crashing over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	music heals the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> Sequel to [even if your voice shakes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7667368)
> 
> For the prompt: Stiles is sick (with like a cold or something lame) and is being the biggest baby and derek is there trying to be mad at him but just thinks it cute

Derek wasn’t usually one to say ‘I told you so’ but right now that’s all he wanted to say.

He’d  _ told _ Stiles not to eat raw cookie dough. He’d  _ told _ him he was going to get sick. He’d  _ told _ him.

And now of course Stiles was curled up on Derek’s couch, groaning loudly as he clutched his stomach, another onslaught of abdominal cramps crashing over him.

Derek had also told him not to come crying to him when he got sick, told him he wasn’t going to take care of him if it was his own fault for getting sick. 

So naturally he was sitting on the couch at Stiles’ hip, spoon-feeding him chicken noodle soup and mopping beads of sweat off his forehead. 

“Nngh, Derek,” Stiles whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his cheek deeper into his pillow. His forehead was furrowed deeply as he weakly croaked out, “It  _ hurts _ .”

Derek set the bowl of soup down on the coffee table beside the sleeve of saltine soda crackers and the mug of ginger tea, both of which he’d grabbed in hopes of quelling Stiles’ stomach pangs and intermittent vomiting, and tossed another wad of sweat-soaked tissues into the trash can he’d dragged over the to the couch. He rubbed Stiles’ back with one hand, the back of his t-shirt damp with sweat, laying his other hand over Stiles’ to start draining some of his pain.

Stiles had shown up at Derek’s for a nice afternoon in, insisting on watching the new Captain America movie as he had been doing for weeks after learning Derek had yet to see it, Derek finally relenting after Stiles pouted and gave him his best puppy dog eyes. He’d been leaning in for a kiss at the door when Derek had violently jerked his head back, a sharp, acidic scent assaulting his nose.

“You’re sick,” Derek had half-explained, half-accused when Stiles cocked a brow at him, very clearly shocked and offended by Derek refusing him a kiss. Stiles had simply denied that he was sick, no skip in his heartbeat indicating a lie, and slid past Derek into the loft, plopping down on the couch and slipping his copy of Civil War into the DVD player. 

They’d only made it ten minutes into the movie, Derek discreetly sniffing the air every few seconds, when Stiles had clapped his hands over his mouth and bolted out of his seat and raced to the bathroom. Derek had heard him retching from down the hall, wincing in sympathy as he jumped to his feet to rush to Stiles’ side.

Derek had stroked Stiles’ back and massaged his shoulders as he threw up his lunch, bent over the toilet on his knees, before he scooped him up and carried him back to the couch. He’d set the trash can and a box of tissues by the couch within Stiles’ reach, tucking him in with a blanket, before going to the kitchen and doing everything he could think of: making a can of soup, brewing some tea, digging out a box of crackers from the pantry. 

“Thanks,” Stiles murmured, watching Derek’s veins blacken. He laid a hand over Derek’s to trace his fingertips over those veins. “What’s it like?”

“It doesn’t hurt if that’s what you’re asking,” Derek assured, running his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles. He leaned forward to brush a lock of hair off Stiles’ forehead, discreetly trying to get a read on his temperature. He watched Stiles’ eyes flicker sadly to the TV screen where Civil War was still playing. “Do you want to keep watching?”

Stiles shook his head lazily. “No. I wanna be lucid when you see T’Challa for the first time.”

“Okay,” Derek laughed, grabbing the remote to turn off the TV, shaking his fondly at his boyfriend’s newly developed idolization of Black Panther. He had admittedly gotten rather jealous a few times when Stiles had initially began launching into rants about the fictional character, singing his praises and even commenting on his physical attractiveness a few too many times for comfort. 

Derek had only been pacified, and stopped brooding like a possessive pup, when Stiles had admitted one of the many reasons he liked T’Challa so much was because he reminded him of Derek. Derek had preened for the rest of night, disgusting the rest of the pack with the amount of smugness he was radiating.

Derek’s smile vanished as Stiles leaned over to throw up in the trash can again, cringing when the stench of bile and chyme hit his nose. Stiles wiped his chin with a few tissues before collapsing back against the couch cushions, groaning again. He met Derek’s gaze with half-lidded eyes and a mirthless grin. “Do you still think I’m pretty?”

“Of course,” Derek answered, not missing a beat, as he squeezed Stiles’ hand. “A little salmonella isn’t gonna change that.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Stiles whined, letting his eyelids drift closed and his head loll back. “I’m sorry I ruined your night. I text my dad, he’ll be here to pick me up soon.”

“You didn’t ruin my night,” Derek promised, running a hand up and down Stiles’ arm in a soothing caress. It was true and as frustrated and powerless as he felt about Stiles being sick, he would never hold it against him. “It’s not your fault you’re sick. Though, I―” 

“Please don’t say ‘I told you so’,” Stiles pleaded, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and rolling onto his side. He gently tapped his fingers against Derek’s hand. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed softly, “I won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled into the pillow. After a few moments, he tentatively asked, “Hey, Der?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Could you-Could you maybe sing to me?” Stiles was avoiding Derek’s eyes, cheeks filling with heat not from his fever as he picked at the corner of the blanket anxiously as though wary of Derek’s reaction. 

Rather than demur as he had last time, Derek simply smiled and shifted closer as he began humming, quickly progressing to actually singing the words as he combed his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “ _ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine / You make me happy when skies are grey / You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you / Please don’t take my sunshine away _ .”

Stiles had already begun dozing off by the time Derek finished singing, a knock on the door startling them both as they remembered that Stiles’ dad was picking him up. Derek helped him to his feet, walking him to the door with an arm around his waist. He leaned in for a quick kiss goodbye only for Stiles to jerk his head back, pointing out, "I'm sick."

"That's alright," Derek answered before pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips. "You're worth getting sick over."

**Author's Note:**

> [Send me prompts!](http://hale-of-stiles-heart.tumblr.com/)


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